


been there, done that

by merlypops



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Confessions, Developing Relationship, Fear, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Smoking, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-27 01:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20751881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merlypops/pseuds/merlypops
Summary: Tommy turns away, lips quirking into an unconscious smile that he’s powerless to suppress. He’s come up against corrupt politicians and murderous mob bosses without so much as batting an eyelid but it seems that Alfie’s humour is his weakness. Tommy laughs before he can stop himself.Alfie has his sights set on Tommy and he'll stop at nothing until he gets him.





	been there, done that

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, look who came crawling back with another weird Tommy/Alfie talking about their FEELINGS. This sort of feels like some strange alternate version of my 'welcome to hell' fic I wrote yesterday but I can't get these two out of my head so here's another fic.  
I hope this one is more in character - these two are surprisingly difficult to write!

Alfie Solomons is dying.

He has been for a long time, years before Margate and Cyril and cancer, and some _cunt_ shooting him in the fucking face. Alfie has been dying since the war; since the choking smoke and the poisonous gas, and that bone-deep fear gnawing away at his insides.

The fear never really fades away but Alfie learns to live with it. He can drown it out in whiskey, in cigarettes, in the bullets he fires at those fucking seagulls screeching bloody murder outside his window.

He forgets to feel the fear at all when Tommy Shelby pays him a visit. He sits there proud as anything, back straight, blue eyes sharp and scared, expression yearning. There’s a cigarette pressed between his lips and his shirt collar lies flat against the pale skin of his throat. Alfie wonders how it would feel to press bruises there, before wondering if it’s anger or lust driving that thought, and recoiling unconsciously. Tommy looked distressed that day on the beach when he learnt that Alfie was dying and he still looks distressed tonight. The pain is fainter now but it remains, lingering in the tired circles under his eyes and the downward turn of his mouth. The cigarette is burning itself away between his lips. Tommy’s hand twitches where it’s resting on his knee, almost like he wants to move closer.

“How’s your face healing up?” Tommy asks, his voice little more than a whisper. Alfie glares, fighting down on the tightening in his chest as he remembers pulling the trigger and burying a bullet in Tommy’s shoulder.

“You shot me in the cheek, mate,” Alfie says sourly, gesturing to the twisted mess of scar tissue with one lazy hand. “Can’t see out of my left fucking eye. Did you know my cousin was born blind, Tommy? I spent half an hour every day with my eyes shut, trying to see how it felt to be fucking blind, and then you come along and shoot me in the face, you cunt, when all I’ve ever done is be perfectly kind and civil; a fucking delight! That’s what I’ve been, Tommy - a _delight_!”

Tommy turns away, lips quirking into an unconscious smile that he’s powerless to suppress. He’s come up against corrupt politicians and murderous mob bosses without so much as batting an eyelid but it seems that Alfie’s humour is his weakness. Tommy laughs before he can stop himself.

“You look like shit, my friend,” he says, smile slipping from his face. “You better not fucking die on me.”

“I’m not dead yet, mate, am I?” Alfie replies scathingly, eyes narrowing. “Gotta be realistic, Tommy, yeah? Be a fucking _man_. I’m still walking and talking; still need to piss. It’ll take more than… than fucking _cancer_ to finish me off, mate, yeah? I’m fucking alive.”

Alfie is tired and aching but there is a vulnerability in Tommy’s eyes that hasn’t been there before, and Alfie will not be the one to stamp that out. They’ve torn at each other enough.

“I’m alive,” Alfie repeats, because it’s a novelty to say it while the words are still true. “In fact… in fact, let’s drink to it! Yeah, Tommy, let’s drink to it; what do you say?”

“Whiskey?” Tommy suggests, rising and tossing his cigarette out into the darkness before he heads towards the bottle where it’s resting on the shelf. Alfie swallows, puts his cards on the table and fights the fear bubbling in his chest. What’s the worst that’s going to happen? Tommy shoots him again? Been there, done that.

“Nah, mate, fuck whiskey,” Alfie says, waving a careless hand through the dusty air, heart hammering in his ribs. “This is a celebration. Bring me the fucking rum.”

Tommy freezes, pale face carefully emotionless as his blue eyes zero in on Alfie’s face. Alfie stares back evenly, taking in the way Tommy swallows reflexively as his trembling fingers curl around the bottle of rum.

“Thought you said rum was for fun and fucking,” he breathes, almost too quiet to hear. Alfie smiles, scarred face creasing in the darkness when Tommy unstoppers the bottle, pouring out two generous glugs into glasses.

“You’re not here on business, are you?” Alfie points out, head tilted to one side curiously, the very picture of innocence. “You know I ain’t got long left, Tommy. One last hurrah, yeah? What do you say?”

“Stop asking me what I fucking say,” Tommy says, knuckles whitening around the bottle. “Stop making me think so much.”

Tommy presses the glass into Alfie’s hand and Alfie takes it slowly, making sure their fingertips brush, lingering together until Tommy pulls back, eyes wide. His eyelashes cast long shadows over his sharp cheekbones but they flutter shut when Alfie kisses him, just for the briefest of moments, the touch so soft that it’s barely there at all.

Tommy isn’t moving when Alfie settles back into the cushions but his skin has gone the colour of bone. He looks like he might bolt, a frightened horse, warring between its training and what it so desperately craves. Alfie sighs quietly, lips curving into a tired smile as he makes himself comfortable, taking a sip of his rum. He relaxes when Tommy joins him after a moment, gulping his down in one swallow, cheeks flaming as the blood rushes to heat them.

He flinches when Alfie reaches out but, after a moment, closes the distance between them, tangling their fingers together timidly. Alfie gives his hand a brief squeeze and Tommy lets out the breath he’s been holding, squeezing back tighter.

He’s still sitting beside him and Alfie takes comfort from that. They don’t need to go any further tonight; don’t need to do it at all if Tommy isn’t sure… but Alfie thinks he _is_ sure, deep down at least. Maybe he just needs time. There’s no need to scare Tommy off. He’s here and he’s willing, and they have time.

Alfie isn’t dead yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading :)  
I'd love to know what you thought!


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